


Painting Houses

by mercuryhatter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Gen, M/M, no kissing this time though, people are covered in paint again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More Bahorel/Feuilly ace fluff. Featuring a paint-covered Feuilly and the questionably obtained cooking skills of Bahorel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting Houses

Most summers, Feuilly painted houses, because painting was something he didn’t mind doing and the money he got usually paid for his textbooks when fall came. What this meant to Bahorel was that his roommate (or friend, or boyfriend, or whatever the hell) was gone most of the day, flinging himself into the shower upon his late returns and then immediately going to bed. Unless, of course, Bahorel lived up to his title of annoying asshole, and showed up wherever Feuilly was painting that day with food and Gatorade and a pair of hungry eyes. There was little Bahorel liked better than the image of Feuilly in only jeans and binder, streaks of white tangling his coppery hair and pastel greens striped across his freckled skin, a sheen of sweat glazing the whole picture. His back was slender but lined with wiry muscle, and his hips with paint-stained jeans hanging low on them were almost enough to make Bahorel wax as poetic as Jehan.  
  
And frankly, after spending probably hours of his life explaining to Courfeyrac the difference between aesthetic and sexual attraction, hours that might have been better spent on watching Game of Thrones or perfecting his roundhouse kick , Bahorel felt like he should at least be able to enjoy it.  
  
Which was what found him sitting on the unfinished concrete floor of a newly built house in a hilariously suburban neighborhood, eating a sandwich and waiting for Feuilly to notice he was here. Bahorel wasn’t exactly subtle, but Feuilly rarely noticed anything while he was working, and if Bahorel was a bit more quiet than usual to avoid attracting his attention, he didn’t think he could really be blamed.  
  
When he got bored of waiting, he cleared his throat, and when that didn’t work, he tossed the cap from his bottle of Gatorade at the back of Feuilly’s neck. Feuilly made a face, swatted at the place it hit, then saw Bahorel and very nearly fell over.  
  
“You asshole!” he shouted, going red all the way to the top of his binder, and Bahorel spared a moment to thank whatever power was out there for bringing redheads and their complexions into existence.  
  
“I also answer to Bahorel, Khal Drogo, and King of the Broken Noses,” Bahorel replied calmly. “Lunch?” Feuilly’s expression was stormy, but he seemed to physically wilt when he looked at the sandwiches-- Bahorel’s cooking skills were almost as legendary as his repertoire of bar brawls. Feuilly shot him a death glare, but had half a sandwich in his mouth almost before he’d managed to sit down. He made a muffled noise of enjoyment into the bread and cucumber filling, and Bahorel suppressed a grin. Feuilly had a very specific set of noises that were only ever made into his favorite sandwiches, and Bahorel had made it his life mission to cause as many of said noises as possible. He made his expression as smug and self-satisfied as he could manage, but Feuilly hardly even noticed. Finishing the sandwich, the redhead fell backwards onto the floor and shook his head at the ceiling.  
  
“Your talents can only be the result of a deal with the devil,” he moaned.  
  
“Ah, you’ve caught me.” Bahorel flung himself down on his back next to Feuilly, their arms brushing. “Actually, I am the devil. Little-known fact.” Feuilly snorted.  
  
“Hardly little-known. Just ask anyone who’s ever been on the wrong end of your fists.” Bahorel shrugged and accepted the judgment with a grin and not a small amount of pride. Feuilly rolled himself over to lay across Bahorel’s chest, chin resting on the other man’s collarbone. Bahorel stopped breathing for a moment. Feuilly held his eyes.  
  
Bahorel leaned up and bit his nose, right over the splotch of tastefully boring green paint somehow smeared there.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on at least six other things right now. I'm not. Enjoy. :D 
> 
> (I promise I'll be writing E/R theatre sex soon. And starting the Grantaire/Montparnasse canon divergence. And doing Manuel's ABC Trifecta. Just... not now, apparently.)


End file.
